Her Transformation
by geophf
Summary: Chapter 2 — Night: Something is very wrong. My transformation hadn't gone this badly. Is she fighting it so hard that she's killing herself before the venom changes her?
1. Evening

**Story summary: **"Oh, bite me, Edward!" you exclaim? Well, okay, you asked for it. Do you know what you're asking for, however? If not, read this story.

**WARNING:** Explicit and graphic; not for the squeamish … which you are not if you want to be bitten.

**Dedication:** To my mom, who is much too squeamish to read this story, but still carries on the fight against breast cancer. "What am I goin' do, give up?" she demands angrily after her most recent chemo treatment and still runs circles around me with the errands we ran today. You go, Mom!

* * *

**Day two, morning:**

_"K-kill me!"_

I looked down at the girl strapped down to the reclined chair. She was a complete mess, sweat beaded on her forehead, spittle flew from her mouth, tears flowed continuously from her eyes, and mucus bubbled and dripped out of her nose.

I took the washcloth from the basin of water, rung it, and lightly patted her face.

The girl screamed in agony, as if I had just ripped off the skin from her cheeks.

I withdrew the washcloth, looking down at the suffering girl-child-woman in front of me.

"I've never realized this until now …" I started hesitantly, "because I had my own baby boy, and now I have Edward, but now I realize … I've always wanted a daughter, too."

The girl in front of me moaned in pain, then looked at me. Her eyes were devoid of reason, she wasn't really looking at me at all, she was just looking out from the nowhere of her agony to the nowhere of here.

"Oh, God!" she cried out in pain. "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!"

Then she screamed, convulsing in and against the restraints, convulsing against the agony trapping her in her body.

…

**Day one, after midnight:**

I come back from a hunt alone to this.

And to think, I was so proud of myself. I was so full of myself. I had hunted by myself. That was a really big step for me, because it showed I could make it on my own out of the city without attacking and killing any humans, and it showed that I could do something on my own.

I mean, certainly I could do something on my own, but what I had done up to now had always been for Carlisle or Edward, and that first year was really, really hard, because what could I do for them? Cook them dinner? Light the fire in the hearth? So they wouldn't feel the chill of the night?

What could I do for them? _Nothing!_ And I felt so useless because there was nothing I could do for them. Nothing at all. The one time I cleaned Edward's room was a complete disaster. He was so angry that he couldn't find anything anymore. He was furious.

I thought he was going to hit me.

I thought he was going to hit me, like Charles hits me … used to hit me.

So when Edward reached past me for the 78 he was so desperately looking for, I screamed and curled up into a ball, and all Edward could do was stand there, probably reading the absolute terror I was experiencing. All he could do was stand there as I screamed and screamed and screamed, because if he touched me to console me, I would have …

What? Died?

Not anymore.

And then there was the whole Carlisle issue, because after Edward and I had a very, very long talk, and we reached an understanding that no, he would never hit me, but, no, I didn't need to do things for him to be … well, accepted, or, well, _loved_ by him, then ...

Well, then Carlisle thought that Edward and I were _in love._ Isn't that silly? Carlisle, the man I had loved since I was sixteen when I broke my leg and who was my physician at the hospital? Yes. But Carlisle thought that I was infatuated with Edward, when what was really the case was that I loved him, loved him as I had loved my little brother, but even more than that, but Edward had some very serious issues about being his own man, all grown up, didn't he? So he 'didn't need anyone' to mother him.

Or so he said.

But, because of that misinterpretation of how I felt for Edward, Carlisle withdrew into himself and his work, avoiding me.

Yes, that first year was hard.

But that first year came and went, as did the subsequent years.

And here we are in our second decade as a family, and I was coming back from my first hunt all by myself. I didn't need Carlisle, _my husband Carlisle …_

God! Can you believe it? After ten years of fantasizing and hoping and praying I can now say it: _my husband Carlisle!_

Well, yes, so I didn't need Carlisle to lead me to the kill, and I didn't need Edward to keep a vigilant lookout over the area … not to protect me (although I think Edward _is_ very protective of me, even though he'd never admit it … he lost his first mother, and I think he reacts now to that: he doesn't want to lose his second one … that he just barely acknowledges), but to ensure the area was clear.

Now, I did all that myself this time: the hunt, the kill, the clearing. And I was so proud of myself.

But then I come back to this.

To Edward. Standing there.

Edward was a good half-a-mile from home, and he was waiting for me. Anxiously.

I stopped myself, feeling a bit nervous myself. What did I do wrong? Did I expose our secret? Did somebody see me?

Edward read my concerns as if I spoke them out loud, because as I asked: "Edward, what is it? What's wrong?"

Edward responded while shaking his head, "Esmé," he began cautiously, "it's not you or anything you've done, …"

I didn't feel reassured as Edward looked away.

Then he said the worst thing he could: "Carlisle …"

He didn't get to finish was he was saying, because I was already on the move, racing back to the house as fast as I could go.

I didn't know anything could touch us, our kind, but Carlisle was in trouble, or Carlisle was destr-…

Don't think that. Get back to Carlisle, and everything will be okay. He'll make everything okay. He always does. He has to. _He has to._

About two-hundred yards from out property, Edward was in front of me, holding out his hands.

"Esmé, stop!" Edward shouted.

I ignored him, trying to dodge to his left. Of course Edward 'saw' that, and was right in front of me, again.

"Edward, get out of my way."

I didn't recognize the voice that came out of my mouth. It wasn't the voice of sweet, demure, helpful Esmé. It was the voice of a beast, a monster.

But when I said these menacing words, I smelled … _something._

I smelled blood, … _human blood._

I froze.

I had just hunted, but suddenly a hunger so fierce consumed me that it was almost painful, and I felt shamed. Here I was, already in my second decade, and my eyes hadn't yet completely lost that red hue because of my all-too-recent weakness in Michigan, and I was still this uncontrollable monster that both Carlisle and Edward so easily transcended.

Or that I hoped that Carlisle transcended. Had he finally succumbed to the weakness that calls to me so strongly? After more than three hundred years of being so strong, had my Carlisle finally stumbled and fallen?

I looked at Edward in askance.

He lowered his hands carefully, watching me for any sudden moves, as I was apt to do when a human was too near when my guard wasn't up.

Edward explained quietly: "Carlisle was returning from the hospital when he came across a girl and he …"

Now, I was really in motion.

_Carlisle was returning from the hospital when he came across a girl and he …_

Those are the exact words that describe how Carlisle found me. He hasn't expressed dissatisfaction with me, that I've noticed, but he's at the hospital all day, and what can I do for him?

I knew what those words meant.

He found another girl. Another girl closer to his age. Another girl younger than me.

Another girl younger than him. Another girl he could truly love.

Another girl. Not me.

_God damn it!_

I raced into the house, ran down the stairs to the basement, lifted the hidden hatch to the cave beneath the basement to see Carlisle holding a woman's hand. A _young woman's_ hand.

In fact, it was … _wait a minute._

I drew in a breath and said, "That's …"

But as I drew in that breath, her scent, her blood still flowing from opened cuts and wounds hit me, and everything went red, and I leapt, snarling, to drink in that absolutely compelling honeysuckle and rose heaven that I _had_ to have in me, _right now._

Edward had caught up to me, but there was no was he could stop my charge.

So he didn't. He leapt, too, but instead of pulling me off the girl that I had not yet reached, he pushed me forward.

I missed my target, and crashed into far wall beyond her.

I turned to launch myself again at her, only to be encircled by Edward's bear hug. From a place outside my body, I heard Edward tell Carlisle he would remove me from the house for now, that is, I understood, until I regained my senses, and I felt my body thrashing helplessly against Edward's, biting and hitting and kicking, trying to get free. Trying to get to that absolutely heavenly scent calling me to drink it all.

But as much as I struggled, I was lifted and carried out of the house so easily.

And Edward took me some distance from town, actually, and held me until the bloodlust relinquished its hold over me.

And all that was left was me, empty me, ashamed me.

Edward let me go, putting me down on the forest floor of the Highland County Park.

I couldn't look at him. Somehow, I felt that he couldn't look at me, too.

"Edward," I whispered, ashamed, "I'm so sorry. I …"

"Esmé," Edward said consolingly, "it's okay; I understand what you're going through." Then he repeated. "It's okay."

But it wasn't okay. I had slipped up again. This time there wasn't another dead person, again, because this time, again, Edward was there to stop me from doing what I didn't stop myself from doing in Ada, Michigan to Anne Hansen and her baby.

When would I ever be anything other than a liability to my new-found family?

That appeared to be growing, it seemed. I had smelled the blood, but I also smelled the venom working its way through that girl's system.

Speaking of which.

"What is _she_ doing here?" I demanded.

Yes. She. She was very badly bruised, bleeding and …

… and beaten … like me …

… but I still recognized that glorious crown of golden hair, those aquiline features, the refinement in the torn jacket.

The girl in our basement could be none other than the belle of Rochester, the darling of high society: Rosalie Hale.

Edward looked at me, and then looked away.

"Carlisle found her," Edward whispered so quietly that even I had difficulty hearing him. "She was …"

Here Edward stopped for a moment, then looked at me out of the corner of his eye, then looked away before continuing.

"She was … attacked," Edward said diplomatically.

But I knew exactly what he meant. Edward spoke euphemistically, but his meaning couldn't have been plainer. I gasped.

Edward continued. "Then she was left to die, and that's when Carlisle came across her."

"What happened to her escort?" I asked in confusion.

Her fiancé, a certain well-to-do Royce King, appeared to be a big, strong man. He was always at her side, and he could have easily scared off or repelled any attackers. Was he surprised? Was he now dead?

Edward was silent, looking at me. So I waited for his response.

Edward finally answered. "She went out without an escort."

Now it was my turn to be silent. A young woman going out without an escort? Unfathomable. There was no scenario that I could imagine how that situation would come about.

So I had to leave that aside.

"Is the attacker known?" I asked Edward, then clarified: "Does she …"

But then I couldn't continue my question, as to pursue that line of thought would be impolite for someone like me to say out loud. But it was uppermost in my mind: _does she know what happened to her?_

Edward nodded silently in answer to my unasked question.

"Edward," I said, "who did it?"

Edward's caution was unnerving me. He was always hiding everything about everything. He never shared my feelings for Carlisle with Carlisle. He never told me of Carlisle's hidden devotion for me. He felt he shouldn't intrude on the privacy of others by broadcasting these things.

Edward's circumspection meant something here. It meant something very serious.

Edward shook his head. "Esmé, no."

"Edward, you tell me right now," I said fiercely, "who did this to her!"

I don't know why this knowledge was so vital to me. It wasn't as if we could do anything about it. There's our world and then there's the world of humanity, and the threads of fate had been eternally severed between those two worlds. I learned this from the first moments of my new existence. Any meddling on our part in their world only lead to ruin in both worlds.

But even though I knew I couldn't do anything about it, I just knew that it was something I _had_ to know.

Edward sighed and looked at me apologetically, and the next words he said rocked me to the core.

"It was her fiancé, Esmé, and his companions: they … did this to her."

Edward looked at me solemnly as I reacted: "Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "Oh, God, no!"

Because what came back to me were those abject years that I lived in constant fear and suffered the constant beatings of my husband Charles.

And it can't be called rape if the husband forces himself on his wife, can it? That's what Mother told me: the wife is subject to the whim of the husband. And he beat me because I was in the wrong, somehow, in not being good enough or not pleasing him or not anticipating his needs. That's what Mother told me: it was my fault that Charles beat me.

Years. Year after miserable, terrifying year under Charles' thumb, and fist, and boot, and lash, and switch. Entirely lost to myself, because all that was left of me was a terrified girl on the inside and a dull, nerveless, senseless shell on the outside.

He only beat me more if I screamed. So I learned not to scream. No matter how badly he hurt me. And crying? That set Charles off into rages so vivid I thought he was actually going mad with anger, that he would actually beat me to death. Sometimes, I cried, in the hopes that he would. But Charles knew what he was doing, and he always stopped before anything happened. He always stopped to extend my suffering to one more day.

And these words that Edward said, these terrible, horrible words?

I wanted to murder that Royce King, right now, for doing that to me … I mean: to her.

But I couldn't do that. "Vampire Murders Human" splashed on the front page of the _New York Times?_ Like that wouldn't call down the Volturi on our heads. So I just had to let go of this anger. I just had to. But …

"But, Edward," I asked. "Why did Carlisle save her?"

Carlisle works at hospitals. He sees hundreds of people die, sometimes he sees that in under a year.

Carlisle saved me. Carlisle saved Edward.

But we were very special cases.

Why would he save this girl, this beautiful, stunning girl that we met in social functions several times? Carlisle didn't seem to show preference toward her, but he never showed any preference toward me. Not even a hint.

Did Carlisle see something in her? _What_ did Carlisle see in her? Was Carlisle a polygamist?

Edward turned to me, a shocked look on his face. "Esmé, Carlisle's not going to …"

"Edward," I held up my hand, and I thought: _leave me, I need to think._

I couldn't think with Edward looking and critiquing every one of my thoughts.

Edward looked unhappy. "Esmé, …" he began pleadingly.

"Edward, go," I began rather curtly, but then I mollified my tone: "please."

Edward left, still unhappy. Petulantly, in fact. I'd have to heal that breach — that poor boy — but I'd have to do that later, for now I had to think.

So now that Edward was gone, I could have my think, instead of think about what I was thinking about, and how that affected him. And what I thought was this:

Carlisle saved Rosalie Hale. If not for himself, as Edward claimed, then why?

I mean, we had met her when her family honored Carlisle with some special award for saving somebody's life. Carlisle does that all the time, but when a rich person is involved, he gets more attention, it seems. Carlisle talked to Rosalie when her mother … what was her name? Gwendolyn? … brought her up to make the introductions, but Rosalie didn't seem interested in Carlisle, and the disinterest appeared mutual to my ever-watchful eyes.

She did talk with Edward for a bit …

And then they did do a duet, Rosalie singing and Edward playing the piano. Everybody said how prettily she sang, and she did, but I chalked that up to people paying more attention to her poise and looks more than her singing. Besides, when Edward played the piano, I really didn't pay much attention to anything else, as he played so well. Sometimes he played when I asked him, and he told me, particularly when he was sad, which was much too often to my mind, he said he played just for me. And when he did, it did both our hearts a world of good.

But that Rosalie did sing very well. Both in French and in German, too. So she's smart. Very smart.

And she and Edward did talk. Talk more than how the other girls twittered about him, and how he brusquely dismissed them. No, Edward actually talked with her for a moment.

A brief moment, but he did talk with her.

Hm.

Then it dawned on me.

I knew Carlisle was smart when I married him, but _ah!_ my man! I'm just so proud of him. He _was_ looking at Rosalie as a mate, but not for himself … he was looking at her _for Edward._

And, oh! those horrible years when Edward became sullen with our way of life we chose to live, and nothing reasonable that Carlisle said, and nothing that I could add to the conversation would persuade Edward from his course, really his self-destructive course of murdering all those people, those hundreds of people in his righteous crusade. And I wondered during those terrible years, what could I have done to have convinced Edward not to do that.

And now I saw that Carlisle saw that there was nothing we could do, not him, and not me, that would have stopped Edward. But now I saw that Carlisle saw this: if Edward had somebody he cared for, more than himself and more than his causes, well, then …

My Carlisle. God, I love that man.

_And_ he picked the prettiest, smartest girl for Edward, too. A bit headstrong, in my view, a bit argumentative, perhaps, but Edward couldn't stomach girls who cooed over him, trying to appease him. See, _I_ would've picked a girl like that for Edward, a girl like me, but Carlisle knows Edward inside and out; Carlisle knows Edward like a son, and picked the perfect match for Edward.

So much to learn from my husband: he's so kind, so easy, but so _deep!_ So smart, so understanding. So compassionate.

Obviously.

But now, here's the thing. Edward can read minds, and I've learned over the years, the one sure way to get Edward _not_ to do something was to suggest that he should. Adding _for his own good_ only made matters worse. Much worse.

I couldn't let a breath of this enter into my thoughts. For if I hoped for Edward's happiness, well, then Edward would be hell-bent on making sure he stayed unhappy, just because.

I'd have to watch myself and my thoughts around Edward until the two of those headstrong lovebirds met their match in, well, each other.

Which would probably be the first argument where they realized that they wouldn't give up their respective positions … they'd probably make up in bed with some very stormy making-up … erhm, 'activities.'

So I'd just have to hold my tongue and my thoughts until after the two of them found the answer to their own personal issues in each other.

I raced back to the house with my revelation, just aglow with joy.

Edward greeted me at the front door. He gave me a quizzical look.

"Are you okay?" He asked with concern in his voice.

"Just marvelous!" I responded, beaming.

This gave him pause, and his next question was cautious: "What were you thinking about out in the forest?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" I sang my answer easily … gaily, even. "Where's Carlisle?" I changed topics quickly, keeping my mind occupied.

Edward pointed toward the downstairs, eying me, but I ignored that and raced down there quickly, Edward fast on my heels.

Carlisle was holding the girl Rosalie's hand as she moaned and cried out in pain. He recited words of reassurance and consolation that she seemed not to hear. She would scream sporadically, the poor girl, as the venom ate away at her battered and bruised body.

Carlisle looked up at me and Edward. "I have to get back to work soon," he murmured apologetically, looking down at Rosalie. She screamed and then moaned.

And I saw in that look that he was looking down at her as a patient in his care, or as a daughter, or as someone who … _don't think that!_

Edward's distracted voice called over my shoulder, "I'll keep watch while you work, Carlisle."

It was then that I realized that I could finally be of service to this family. That I could finally _do_ _something_ for Carlisle and Edward, something _useful_.

I turned to face Edward, examining him. His eyes were black, and his face was pinched.

"No," I said, "I'll keep watch on her. You go hunt. You need to. You haven't in a while, and this must be so hard for you."

"Esmé, this is hard on you, too …" Edward began.

"I just hunted, Edward," I reminded him, then pushed through something he was about to say: "I'll be _fine,_ Edward, really! I was just surprised, that's all, I'm in control now. You go and hunt and check up on us when you return."

I added that last bit because Edward would anyway. The world didn't turn if Edward didn't make sure that it did, exactly the way he wanted it to. Me giving him permission made him feel better about what my dear, proud, little boy Edward was going to do anyway.

Edward didn't move. He looked at me without much trust in his eyes.

Not that I've earned that trust, what, with Carlisle and Edward always having to safeguard me. I sighed. I went to Carlisle's side and touched his shoulder lightly. Carlisle, standing beside Rosalie's chair looked at me and then surrendered her hand to my care.

Carlisle didn't need the pretense of sitting beside Rosalie: we weren't in the hospital, after all, with human eyes watching us, with human minds wondering how we could stand still in one place for hours.

I took Rosalie's hand, and she cried out at my touch. I winced slightly in sympathy.

Carlisle made to leave.

"Carlisle!" I called.

Carlisle turned back, smiled faintly, and whispered a 'thank you for doing this, my love,' as he pecked me on the cheek.

Edward looked at us with disgust. "Ick," he said.

_Teeners, _I thought as I smiled to myself.

Carlisle and I weren't openly affectionate at all in public, and not even in front of Edward, but we couldn't hide our thoughts as we … _you know_ … from Edward, and besides, after the turmoil I suffered this last day, I needed that little something that Carlisle gave, and that kiss was the reassurance I needed that Carlisle still loved me.

And this was so important. More important than most anything in my existence.

So Edward would just have to bear this little impropriety as best he could.

I put my hand on Rosalie's forehead. It was on fire.

_"Ah!"_ she screamed, "so cold! Your hand is so cold!"

"It's okay, honey," I crooned as a mother to a baby, "it's okay."

I felt Edward's eyes on me. Yes, the smell of human blood was heavy in the air, but I maintained tight control over myself, I had to: I'm doing this for her. I'm doing this for Carlisle and Edward.

Edward whispered: "I'll come right back after I hunt," and he was gone.

"No hurry," I called after him.

I looked down at the girl. She was looking right at me, her eyes pleading with me. Begging.

_"K-kill me!"_ she murmured desperately.

Well, maybe Edward could hurry a little bit … if he wanted to. I reached for the washcloth in the water basin.

* * *

Teeners: n. origin 1894. Changed to 'teenager' in 1941.

I've had this idea brewing for quite some time, and the sources for it came mostly from my stories, particularly from "My Sister Rosalie" and "Rose by a Lemon Tree." Of course the backstory is from Steph's notes on the twilight lexicon, but if you feel your story is being directly quoted, please PM me so I may credit you appropriately. Any slights are unintentional. I feel these ideas are originally mine, but I have read more than one origin story, please let me credit yours if your material appears here.


	2. Night

**Chapter summary:** Something is very wrong. My transformation hadn't gone this badly. Is she fighting it so hard that she's killing herself before the venom changes her?

**Warning:** The last chapter was bad. This chapter is worse. Graphic and explicit. Not for the squeamish.

* * *

**Day two, late afternoon:**

This is bad. This is very bad.

The girl had begun convulsing. Something was going very, very wrong.

_Edward, where are you?_

And why did Carlisle have to work today? Couldn't he have taken today off from the hospital? Why did they entrust this girl's life to me? How could they possibly think I could handle this responsibility? Didn't they see that something unexpected would happen?

_"H-help!"_ she cried.

I rung my hands. I didn't know what to do. I reached for the washcloth in the water basin … then I heard it.

She screamed, and then the scream turned into a gurgle, and then that gurgle turned into vomit.

She sprayed vomit right up into the air, hurling it, projecting it, more than three feet straight up, and it came right back down all over her face and bodice.

And she kept vomiting.

Then she started to choke on her own bile.

Quickly I loosed the restraints binding her wrists — I had to risk that she would claw out her own eyes, because choking to death now was a worse option — and I sat her up, cradling her head into my chest.

Thankfully her throat cleared, but that meant that my blouse was now covered in what she just ate.

What she just ate smelled like digested food … and there's no smell more putrid for a vampire than that. Not even cooked food, which was so disgusting in its smell I swore I would _never_ cause myself to go near a smell like that again. Thankfully Carlisle and Edward seemed to prefer their steaks tartar these days.

But the smell coming from her? The bile covering me?

Actually, after the initial shock, that, surprisingly for me, I didn't need to suppress a gag reflex — I didn't have one, it appears — I found that I didn't mind it at all. You hold a baby boy in your arms after he feeds and you discover that his burp sometimes contains a lot more than air. And when he screws up his face? Then the look of relief? A sure sign you need to check the diaper, which has more often than not leaked more than a bit onto you.

Did I mind that? No, it connected me more to my baby. I minded it when that stopped … because that's when he stopped, and became still … and cold.

So when Rosalie vomited on me? Strange as it sounds, I suddenly felt a stronger tender connection to her in that moment of her weakness.

Then, when Rosalie's stream of bile stopped and turned to dry heaving? That didn't stop? But just kept going and going and going?

I didn't know who I consoling more with my murmured words as I held her ribs from exploding out of her body: her, … or me.

That's when the front door opened.

_Edward, help!_ I begged as loudly as I could in my mind.

Edward was down in a flash, bless is lightning speed. Rosalie didn't hear him or see him standing in the door, because she was still dry heaving, helplessly, into my blouse, my arms holding her to me and holding her together.

Edward surveyed the mess with distaste.

_What's happening?_ I asked in a panic.

Edward looked at me quizzically.

_I don't remember this happening to me,_ I clarified, _something's going horribly wrong; how do we save her?_

Edward shook his head, pityingly. He responded in _our_ _voice, _a voice that a vampire could hear, but that human ears, ears that Rosalie still had, couldn't.

He said: "You don't remember this, Esmé, because you were clinically dead for the first two days: Carlisle massaged your heart that whole time, your heart only beat on its own the last day … the worst day."

"This isn't the worst?" I asked incredulously.

Edward just shook his head sadly and was about to say something, but Rosalie's dry heaving stopped, and she whimpered.

It was the saddest sound in the world … that is, until she whispered: "Water…"

"Edward, …" I began, but then Edward cut me off.

"Don't give her anything," he said fiercely.

"What?" I demanded, shocked.

I wondered: where was his heart? Where did the Edward that I know and love … where did he go?

"Her stomach has been … altered," Edward explained. "You give her anything — water, or _anything _— it'll come right back up and it will only cause her more pain."

Edward looked at me seriously: "You give her water, and you'll only be hurting her."

"Water, …" Rosalie begged. _"Please!"_

"Edward," I said to him, "what do I do? How can I help her?"

Edward regarded me stonily from the doorway. "You can't. Unless you kill her now."

I gasped.

"But there's a chance the transformation's gone too far already, and we'll have to take more forceful measures to make sure she doesn't regen-…"

"Edward," I held up my hand, "thank you; we won't be doing that, okay?"

Edward shrugged as Rosalie begged again: _"Oh, God, please: water!"_

"How can you stand this?" I asked Edward.

Edward regarded me.

"Do you want me to take over?" he asked. "It only gets worse from here."

I glared at him.

"It's not a weakness, Esmé, you've done enough; Carlisle and I can take care of the rest."

I felt my shoulders square. "No, but thank you, Edward; I can do this."

I was _not_ going to abandon this girl — _my girl, my new daughter_ — because I am weak. I am a mother. I am strong. I know of self-sacrifice. I would be willing to give my life for my child … because I did. I could take on her suffering and bear it. I could do this for her. She would be loved — she would be loved _by me!_ — and she would know that love from the very first moment that I became aware of her need. I would not abandon her. I will never do that.

Edward looked at me as if I were a new person, not as weak little Esmé to be coddled, but a strong person, an equal.

But then he grimaced. "I never saw you as weak, Esmé."

I sighed at Edward and his mind-reading.

Edward rolled his eyes. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked solicitously.

_New clothes … _I thought, _new clothes for both of us would be good._

Edward nodded, and as he left, he said: "I'll get her two sets, just in case."

_Just in case_ what? I wondered.

Edward's knowing voice floated back to me: "You'll see."

I didn't have time to meditate on this, however, because Rosalie was frantically clawing at her foot restraints. I was amazed at her, stunned, in fact, that she had that kind of strength to be able to concentrate on getting her hands to move with any direction at all through her pain.

"Honey," I said, "we have to keep these on, to protect you from yours-…"

Her shriek interrupted me: "I have to … I have to … _I HAVE TO …"_

I removed the restraints from her ankles, ripping the leather off with a simple twist of my hand.

"What do you have to do?" I asked. I figure I could risk whatever she did, as the restraints seemed to be driving her mad.

She fell of the table into a heap on the floor, and started crawling.

"I have to …" she repeated.

Then a stench much worse than the vomit covering us both reached my nostrils.

I saw what she obviously had to do from the wet stain spreading from the seat of her dress.

I picked her up, tearing off her dress and sat her on the crapper that had never been used in this shelter by any of the current residents until now. I don't even think she noticed or felt the need to be embarrassed when I ripped the soiled undergarments from her body, as she was so lost as she defecated uncontrollably.

"I'm so sorry, dear," I apologized, "I … just didn't know that … I just haven't needed to …"

She held onto me, and I, her, for a long time, and she screamed and cried as first her bowels emptied themselves completely, and then her bladder followed suit.

I heard a surprised 'Oh!' by the door frame, but when I looked I just saw a pile of neatly folded clothes by the door.

Edward probably saw more than his young gentleman eyes were accustomed to seeing. He probably retreated the second he came into the room. I couldn't hold his squeamishness against him, however. But I didn't have time dwell on this, as I had a much more delicate creature to tend to at present.

"Honey, I'm sorry," I apologized again. "I'm so sorry, but let me wash you, and put some new clothes on you, okay?"

Rosalie looked somewhere, not at me at all. Her eyes had a million-mile stare.

Her silence was deafening. She wasn't screaming nor moaning, she was frozen, transfixed by something.

Then her head snapped around to me, and she stared me dead in the eye, and she grasped her stomach with both her hands.

_"Oh, my God! OH, MY GOD!"_ she wailed, then she screamed desperately: _"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!"_

"Honey," I said consolingly, but her tone scared me a little bit: "it can't stop, it has to run its …"

_"MY BABIES!"_ she screamed. _"It's EATING MY BABIES!"_

Then I realized that her hands weren't over her stomach; they were over her womb.

This moment was one I must have definitely missed during my own change, and now I was very glad I had missed it. Having just had my own baby die in my arms? And then this?

I carefully drew her into me. I couldn't think about myself now; I had to be strong for her.

"I'm so sorry, honey," I said, "I'm so sorry."

I don't know if she heard me at all, as she was sobbing and crying onto my shoulder. She kept repeating _'my babies'_ mournfully as she cried.

I let her have her cry, sitting on the crapper that I flushed to remove most of the odor, for soon she would not be able to cry … not anymore. Not after the venom ate away her eyes and her tear ducts.

But I also needed to help her, too. And me covered in her vomit? And her covered in that and her own excrement? This couldn't be helping her at all. I lifted her from the seat she would never need to use again and brought her to the shower stall. I ripped off the remainder of her clothes and my own, throwing them all into the burn bag, and rinsed then soaped then rinsed us both thoroughly.

She is such a beautiful girl. The bruises and wounds from the beating she received at the hands of those beasts were starting to be subsumed by the transformative effect of the venom, and her true beauty was coming back to the fore. I couldn't wait to see her face when the cigarette burn was gone from the iris and the bruising was gone from there, too. I pictured her beautiful human face and already saw how the slimming effect of the venom on her face would make her indescribably beautiful: the sculptures of the Greek goddesses wouldn't hold a candle to the beauty my daughter would have.

_My daughter._ I savored the phrase in my mind. _My daughter._

My daughter whose head was bent in sadness as she continued to cry through the shower as she would sigh a whisper now and then: _'my babies.'_

And then her whispered words changed, but not for the better: _"I want to die,"_ she cried out in despair, "Oh, God! Let me die, _please!"_

The poor dear. Her only joy taken from her before she even had a chance to experience it. For me, at least I had Carlisle in this new existence to give me something to look beyond my own terrible loss. I hope … _careful now!_ … well, I hope _our family_ would give her meaning in her new existence. I hope, as a new mother to a new daughter I never knew I wanted, that I could give her the love she needed to …

"Esmé," Edward's indignant voice whispered from beyond the closed door, "you can't do this. What if she'll have nothing to do with us? You can't force us on her."

I sighed. _Yes, Edward,_ I answered him in my mind. _I understand this. I was given the same option, and her choice may not be mine: she may choose to strike out on her own instead. I understand this _— I don't have to like understanding it, however — _but I will let her know that she is welcomed and loved here, and will be for as long as she chooses to stay, and, if she leaves, every day she's gone, and as soon as she returns I'll be waiting for her, as I waited for you, with open arms and heart._

Edward sighed in return. "Esmé," he whispered a bit angrier, "you can't smother a person like that, you just have to …"

"You just have to run along, Edward," I said a bit more forcefully.

That boy and his very strange view of ethics just gives me a headache sometimes.

"What?" Rosalie asked me in confusion, moved beyond herself.

I smiled at her, "It's nothing, sweetheart, I just …"

Then she doubled over and screamed, right back in her agony again.

Do you know how hard it is to dress yourself with a screaming girl a bit taller than you clinging to you? Hard, isn't it? Now imagine dressing her too as she convulses in her agony.

"Honey," I said after I somehow managed to dress her, "I'm going to take you back to the table now, okay? It's better if you're lying down. Do you understand me?"

Rosalie jerked herself away from me, viciously. It did nothing, as her still human strength was nothing compared to mine.

"Sweetie, …" I began consolingly to the jerking frame.

Her struggle did nothing, but her words worked: _"Don't call me that! Don't touch me! LET ME GO!"_

And she screamed in agony.

I let her go. Hurt. Stung.

She crumpled to the floor, crying, writhing in agony.

"I…" I began, but I didn't know what to say. I turned to the door to leave her be.

_"Don't leave me! DON'T LEAVE ME!"_ she wailed.

I turned back, because I felt it. My heart seemed physically to leave my body and go out to her. It was almost as if I actually saw it happen.

I lay down on the ground, right next to her.

"I'm here," I whispered, "I'm here … Rosalie."

She turned into me and grabbed me into her with all her frail might. I cautiously wrapped her in my arms, ready to let her go if she demanded it.

"Hurts," she whimpered. "It hurts."

"I know, honey," I said. "I know."

"Make it go away, _please!" _she begged.

"I can't," I said sadly.

She just cried and cried into my shoulder.

And I held her, and I let her cry.

And she held me, the only strength she could grasp.

And I let her hold me, and was strong for her to let her draw strength from the inexhaustible well of me.

And I held her.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:** Rosalie's perspective as she loses her 'babies' in this story is presented in my story "Rose by a Lemon Tree" (rlt), ch 12 ("The Soul: the Singer — II: Family Time"). Please note, however, that rlt is AU, that is, not canonical, but this piece can be interpreted strictly canonically (but fits perfectly fine in the msr/rlt canon). Also note that rlt is a companion piece to my story "My Sister Rosalie" (msr), and reading rlt doesn't make much sense if you haven't read past ch 24 ("Rain by a Rose Garden) of msr.


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